Who knows, I might even finish that sweater this year.
– Me, September 2, 2017, “=NVL(Number,24)”

The sweater I’ve been working on is still in the bag piled beside the entertainment center, waiting for me to finish that sleeve.
– Me, December 14, 2017, “Escapades in Escapism”

The new season of The Orville started on the 30th. Finding myself without a craft project to work on in front of the television for the first time since football season started, and feeling pretty good about myself for finishing all of the ones I’d planned to get done by Christmas, I convinced myself to fish that sleeve out of the bag piled beside the entertainment center and finish it.

I finished the sleeve, dug out the rest of the pieces, seamed the shoulders together, and…

Uhm.

The aggressively asymmetrical sweater.

This is supposed to be a “Cozy Shell” that falls at the waist. If I seamed the sides, it would fit me like a caftan, and as you can see here, the absolute shortest the hem gets is mid-thigh.

I can’t remember what I was thinking while I was making this. I’m not convinced I was thinking while I was making this.

I considered blocking the sweater to see if I could straighten it out, but I concluded the only thing that would help is wrapping it around a concrete block and throwing them into a deep dark hole.

Perhaps it will be happier as dishcloths, or a couple of blankets for the hypothetically eventual dog to shed all over and shred into yarn confetti.

On the bright side, now that I know the limit of how badly I can screw up crocheting a sweater, shouldn’t my next attempt be better?

Aasymptotic is my trying to describe being in the opposite state as asymptotic — that is, becoming less precise as a variable approaches a limit, instead of more so.

About Shai

I’m an absolutely normal person. Abysmally normal. Hideously normal. So white bread and uptight that it’s not even funny. In some ways, I’m probably just like you, only repressed, unsociable or bound by a non-disclosure agreement.

I write. I analyze. I ask a lot of stupid questions. I solve problems, and I create new ones. I can break processes, software and brains (seemingly) simply by being in close proximity to them. That used to alarm me, then people started paying me to do it. I got over it.

I find data soothing.

I’m not sure I’ll ever finish going to school, because I don’t know everything yet and yeah, that bugs me. Sometimes, I have a mental soundtrack. That should bug me more than it does.

I’m married to a Certified Genius. We’re still trying to figure out this parenting thing (and pretty sure that it’d be easier to send a bag of cats to Mars). We have a son. Singular. We’ve had cats. Multiple. We like our son better, even if he’s more complicated.

Way more complicated.

We sometimes look at dog owners with blatant envy.

We move every four-five years or so. Six years ago, we relocated from Northeastern Pennsylvania to Northern Virginia. We’re twitching a little.

Modus Dementi is supposed to be Latin for ‘demented mode’, but since I don’t know Latin, it probably isn’t. Google Translate suggests that it’s ‘stupefied by the mode of’ … and I can’t argue with that at all.

I do, however, know French — a peu, parce que j’ai suivie de cours à l’université. Démenti means ‘contradiction’. The term’s often used to mean the official or formal denial of the truth of a report. I’m not quite sure what that says about this blog’s narrator.